"WELL, then, I'll tell you," said Maksim Maksimych. "About six versts from the fortress there lived a certain 'friendly' prince. His son, a brat of about fifteen, was accustomed to ride over to visit us. Not a day passed but he would come, now for one thing, now for another. And, indeed, Grigori Aleksandrovich and I spoiled him. What a dare-devil the boy was! Up to anything, picking up a cap at full gallop, or bringing things down with his gun! He had one bad quality; he was terribly greedy for money. Once, for the fun of the thing, Grigori Aleksandrovich promised to give him a ducat if he would steal the best he-goat from his father's herd for him; and, what do you think? The very next night he came lugging it in by the horns! At times we used to take it into our heads to tease him, and then his eyes would become bloodshot and his hand would fly to his dagger immediately. "'You'll be losing your life if you are not careful, Azamat,' I would say to him. 'That hot head of yours will get you into trouble.' "On one occasion, the old prince himself came to invite us to the A HERO OF OUR TIME wedding of his eldest daughter; and, as we were guest-friends with him, it was impossible to decline, Tartar though he was. We set off. In the village we were met by a number of dogs, all barking loudly. The women, when they saw us coming, hid them- selves, but those whose faces we were able to get a view of were far from being beauties. "'I had a much better opinion of the Cir- cassian women,' remarked Grigori Aleksandrovich. "'Wait a bit!' I answered, with a smile; I had my own views on the subject. "A number of people had already gathered at the prince's hut. It is the custom of the Asiatics, you know, to invite all and sundry to a wedding. We were received with every mark of honour and conducted to the guest- chamber. All the same, I did not forget quietly to mark where our horses were put, in case anything unforeseen should happen." "How are weddings celebrated amongst them?" I asked the staff- captain. "Oh, in the usual way. First of all, the Mullah reads them something out of the Koran; then gifts are bestowed upon the young couple and all their relations; the next thing is eating and drinking of buza, then the dance on horse- back; and there is always some ragamuffin, bedaubed with grease, bestriding a wretched, lame jade, and grimacing, buffooning, and making the worshipful company laugh. Finally, when darkness falls, they proceed to hold what we should call a ball in the guest-chamber. A poor, old greybeard strums on a three-stringed in- strument -- I forget what they call it, but anyhow, it is something in the nature of our balalaika.[1] The girls and young children set themselves in two ranks, one opposite the other, and clap their hands and sing. Then a girl and a man come out into the centre and begin to chant verses to each other -- whatever comes into their heads -- and the rest join in as a chorus. Pechorin and I sat in the place of honour. All at once up came our host's youngest daughter, a girl of about sixteen, and chanted to Pechorin -- how shall I put it? -- something in the nature of a compliment." . . . [1] A kind of two-stringed or three-stringed guitar. "What was it she sang -- do you remember?" A HERO OF OUR TIME "It went like this, I fancy: 'Handsome, they say, are our young horsemen, and the tunics they wear are garnished with silver; but handsomer still is the young Russian officer, and the lace on his tunic is wrought of gold. Like a poplar amongst them he stands, but in gardens of ours such trees will grow not nor bloom!' "Pechorin rose, bowed to her, put his hand to his forehead and heart, and asked me to answer her. I know their language well, and I translated his reply. "When she had left us I whispered to Grigori Aleksandrovich: "'Well, now, what do you think of her?' "'Charming!' he replied. 'What is her name?' "'Her name is Bela,' I answered. "And a beautiful girl she was indeed; her figure was tall and slender, her eyes black as those of a mountain chamois, and they fairly looked into your soul. Pechorin, deep in thought, kept his gaze fixed upon her, and she, for her part, stole glances at him often enough from under her lashes. Pechorin, however, was not the only one who was admiring the pretty princess; another pair of eyes, fixed and fiery, were gazing at her from the corner of the room. I took a good look at their owner, and recognised my old acquaintance Kazbich, who, you must know, was neither exactly 'friendly' nor yet the other thing. He was an object of much suspicion, although he had never actually been caught at any knavery. He used to bring rams to our fortress and sell them cheaply; only he never would haggle; whatever he demanded at first you had to give. He would have his throat cut rather than come down in price. He had the reputation of being fond of roaming on the far side of the Kuban with the Abreks; and, to tell the truth, he had a regular thief's visage. A little, wizened, broad- shouldered fellow he was -- but smart, I can tell you, smart as the very devil! His tunic was always worn out and patched, but his weapons were mounted in silver. His horse was renowned throughout Kabardia -- and, indeed, a better one it would be impossible to imagine! Not without good reason did all the other horsemen envy Kazbich, and on more than one occasion they had attempted to steal the horse, but they had never succeeded. I seem to see the animal before me now -- black as coal, with A HERO OF OUR TIME legs like bow-strings and eyes as fine as Bela's! How strong he was too! He would gallop as much as fifty versts at a stretch! And he was well trained besides -- he would trot behind his master like a dog, and actually knew his voice! Kazbich never used to tether him either -- just the very horse for a robber! . . . "On that evening Kazbich was more sullen than ever, and I noticed that he was wearing a coat of mail under his tunic. 'He hasn't got that coat of mail on for nothing,' I thought. 'He has some plot in his head, I'll be bound!' "It grew oppressively hot in the hut, and I went out into the air to cool myself. Night had fallen upon the mountains, and a mist was beginning to creep along the gorges. "It occurred to me to pop in under the shed where our horses were standing, to see whether they had their fodder; and, besides, it is never any harm to take precautions. My horse was a splendid one too, and more than one Kabardian had already cast fond glances at it, repeating at the same time: 'Yakshi tkhe chok yakshi.'[1] [1] "Good -- very good." "I stole along the fence. Suddenly I heard voices, one of which I immediately recognised. It was that of the young pickle, Azamat, our host's son. The other person spoke less and in a quieter tone. "'What are they discussing there?' I won- dered. 'Surely it can't be my horse!' I squatted down beside the fence and proceeded to play the eavesdropper, trying not to let slip a single word. At times the noise of songs and the buzz of voices, escaping from the hut, drowned the conversation which I was finding interesting. "'That's a splendid horse of yours,' Azamat was saying. 'If I were master of a house of my own and had a stud of three hundred mares, I would give half of it for your galloper, Kazbich!' "'Aha! Kazbich!' I said to myself, and I called to mind the coat of mail. "'Yes,' replied Kazbich, after an interval of silence. 'There is not such another to be found in all Kabardia. Once -- it was on the other side of A HERO OF OUR TIME the Terek -- I had ridden with the Abreks to seize the Russian herds. We had no luck, so we scattered in different directions. Four Cossacks dashed after me. I could actually hear the cries of the giaours behind me, and in front of me there was a dense forest. I crouched down in the saddle, committed myself to Allah, and, for the first time in my life, insulted my horse with a blow of the whip. Like a bird, he plunged among the branches; the sharp thorns tore my clothing, the dead boughs of the cork-elms struck against my face! My horse leaped over tree- trunks and burst his way through bushes with his chest! It would have been better for me to have abandoned him at the outskirts of the forest and concealed myself in it afoot, but it was a pity to part with him -- and the Prophet rewarded me. A few bullets whistled over my head. I could now hear the Cossacks, who had dismounted, running upon my tracks. Suddenly a deep gully opened before me. My galloper took thought -- and leaped. His hind hoofs slipped back off the opposite bank, and he re- mained hanging by his fore-feet. I dropped the bridle and threw myself into the hollow, thereby saving my horse, which jumped out. The Cossacks saw the whole scene, only not one of them got down to search for me, thinking probably that I had mortally injured myself; and I heard them rushing to catch my horse. My heart bled within me. I crept along the hollow through the thick grass -- then I looked around: it was the end of the forest. A few Cossacks were riding out from it on to the clearing, and there was my Karagyoz[1] galloping straight towards them. With a shout they all dashed forward. For a long, long time they pursued him, and one of them, in particular, was once or twice almost successful in throwing a lasso over his neck. [1] Turkish for "Black-eye." I trembled, dropped my eyes, and began to pray. After a few moments I looked up again, and there was my Karagyoz flying along, his tail waving -- free as the wind; and the giaours, on their jaded horses, were trailing along far behind, one after another, across the steppe. Wallah! It is true -- really true! Till late at night I lay in the hollow. Suddenly -- what do you think, Azamat? I heard in the darkness a horse trotting along the bank of the hollow, snorting, neighing, and beating the ground A HERO OF OUR TIME with his hoofs. I recognised my Karagyoz's voice; 'twas he, my comrade!" . . . Since that time we have never been parted!' "And I could hear him patting his galloper's sleek neck with his hand, as he called him various fond names. "'If I had a stud of a thousand mares,' said Azamat, 'I would give it all for your Karagyoz!' "'Yok![1] I would not take it!' said Kazbich indifferently. [1] "No!" "'Listen, Kazbich,' said Azamat, trying to ingratiate himself with him. 'You are a kind- hearted man, you are a brave horseman, but my father is afraid of the Russians and will not allow me to go on the mountains. Give me your horse, and I will do anything you wish. I will steal my father's best rifle for you, or his sabre -- just as you like -- and his sabre is a genuine Gurda;[1] you have only to lay the edge against your hand, and it will cut you; a coat of mail like yours is nothing against it.' [1] A particular kind of ancient and valued sabre. "Kazbich remained silent. "'The first time I saw your horse,' continued Azamat, 'when he was wheeling and leaping under you, his nostrils distended, and the flints flying in showers from under his hoofs, something I could not understand took place within my soul; and since that time I have been weary of everything. I have looked with disdain on my father's best gallopers; I have been ashamed to be seen on them, and yearning has taken pos- session of me. In my anguish I have spent whole days on the cliffs, and, every minute, my thoughts have kept turning to your black galloper with his graceful gait and his sleek back, straight as an arrow. With his keen, bright eyes he has looked into mine as if about to speak! . . . I shall die, Kazbich, if you will not sell him to me!' said Azamat, with trembling voice. "I could hear him burst out weeping, and I must tell you that Azamat was a very stubborn lad, and that not for anything could tears be wrung from him, even when he was a little younger. "In answer to his tears, I could hear some- thing like a laugh. "'Listen,' said Azamat in a firm voice. 'You see, I am making up my A HERO OF OUR TIME mind for anything. If you like, I will steal my sister for you! How she dances! How she sings! And the way she embroiders with gold -- marvellous! Not even a Turkish Padishah[1] has had a wife like her! . . . Shall I? Wait for me to-morrow night, yonder, in the gorge where the torrent flows; I will go by with her to the neighbouring village -- and she is yours. Surely Bela is worth your galloper!' [1] King -- a title of the Sultan of Turkey. "Kazbich remained silent for a long, long time. At length, instead of answering, he struck up in an undertone the ancient song: "Many a beauty among us dwells From whose eyes' dark depths the starlight wells, 'Tis an envied lot and sweet, to hold Their love; but brighter is freedom bold. Four wives are yours if you pay the gold; But a mettlesome steed is of price untold; The whirlwind itself on the steppe is less fleet; He knows no treachery -- no deceit."[2] [2] I beg my readers' pardon for having versified Kazbich's song, which, of course, as I heard it, was in prose; but habit is second nature. (Author's note.) "In vain Azamat entreated him to consent. He wept, coaxed, and swore to him. Finally, Kazbich interrupted him impatiently: "'Begone, you crazy brat! How should you think to ride on my horse? In three steps you would be thrown and your neck broken on the stones!' "'I?' cried Azamat in a fury, and the blade of the child's dagger rang against the coat of mail. A powerful arm thrust him away, and he struck the wattle fence with such violence that it rocked. "'Now we'll see some fun!' I thought to myself. "I rushed into the stable, bridled our horses and led them out into the back courtyard. In a couple of minutes there was a terrible uproar in the hut. What had happened was this: Azamat had rushed in, with his tunic torn, saying that Kazbich was going to murder him. All sprang out, seized their guns, and the fun began! Noise -- shouts -- shots! But by this time Kazbich was in the saddle, and, wheeling among the crowd along the A HERO OF OUR TIME street, defended himself like a madman, brandishing his sabre. "'It is a bad thing to interfere in other people's quarrels,' I said to Grigori Aleksandro- vich, taking him by the arm. 'Wouldn't it be better for us to clear off without loss of time?' "'Wait, though, and see how it will end!' "'Oh, as to that, it will be sure enough to end badly; it is always so with these Asiatics. Once let them get drunk on buza, and there's certain to be bloodshed.' "We mounted and galloped home."